Miscalculations
by fictionandfoxes
Summary: Dirk Strider is a boy of constant computations and analyzation, yet his constant attempts at perfection are shattered in the green eyes and languid words of a boy he barely knows - Sorry I haven't updated in so long! I promise I'll get on it; Enjoy!


You supposed that you expected an awkward laugh or two. But nothing this extensive. You've turned into a red-faced blushing mess, trying to explain words that won't come out easily. You trained for this, practiced hours in front of various mirrors on various planets and of-fucking-course you can't form a coherent sentence when you look at him.

His eyes were always big and interested, and you only wish you wouldn't get so entangled in their vast jungle greens. And the fact that his hair fell over his face in a perfectly swooping mass of rich black didn't make those eyes any less noticeable. You wanted to study every inch of him like he studied those old treasure maps, searching for distant relics and dirty skulls with those calloused hands.

And of course as your mind was observing your mouth kept spewing random bullshit that was not only inconsequential but also avoided the subject you tried to bring up in the first place. You talked of the places you'd been and the monsters you'd fought and threw in your trademarked irony wherever possible. You couldn't let him down right?

He nodded encouragingly, looking genuinely interested in what you'd done, smiling that perfect crooked smile and laughing in that chortle until he snorted. It almost broke down your stoic facade right there, since his laugh was the only contagious one you'd ever had to combat. But you'd only lift your lips in the smallest of smirks and keep observing through your dark sunglasses.

He talked about his adventures as well, his cockney accent making them all the more entertaining. He used his hands all the time, trying to make you see exactly what had happened, and he'd even go the extent of re-enacting them if you didn't mind. Which, of course, you didn't. He'd roll on the ground and pull out his guns and fake the "intense battle scenes", but you had to admit he was good. And in action, probably better.

It was just so hard not to stare when his white shirt lifted ever so slightly as he army crawled or at his khaki-shorted bubble butt as he reached for his pistols. And god how you'd get embarrassed, but of course you wouldn't show it. You've already tried hard to make up for that first embarrassing introduction.

He finally wiped the dirt off as he got up from the ground, pulling out both guns with a signature wink as you clapped. He smiled and sat on a nearby boulder, wiping the sweat from his forehead and shrugging off his green military jacket, revealing that his white t-shirt had in fact been a white tank top, and you hadn't expected that or prepared for it and not that it was anything to prepare for but shit.

Really just shit. His arms were lean and muscular, and you could see where his farmer's tan had set in after weeks of running about the jungle he called his home with that jacket on. And he picked up his water and drank it slowly and oh my god you might faint and you really shouldn't have just thought that come on Strider.

Jake had this way of getting to you and he barely even knew you and it was disappointing because you should be better than that. And as you freaked out, he noticed your staring and raised an eyebrow, joining you on the ground as he plopped down in front of you.

He doesn't say anything, and you're trying to find a way to hide yourself further because you're making this so awkward. You've calculated this, you watched footage from the robot over and over to make sure there wouldn't be any discrepancies between him then and him now. Everything you've ever done has been computed in a similar manner, but him, with his spontaneity and his personality and his arms and those eyes.

It sent you into overdrive, and you don't ever get sent into overdrive. You're reserved. Known for your held-back nature. You don't allow stupid things like boys in green jackets to make you sweat, and yet, here you are.

He reached towards you, and you had to hold your breath, because you had no idea what to expect. He was looking right into your eyes, although you weren't sure how he could see them, as he took off your sunglasses, and you hated that your face was turning red again and that you weren't in control, but you let him do it anyway.

He took the pointed shades in his hands and, slowly, put them down in the space between them. You were looking down, you couldn't handle this. He didn't understand what he could do to you by doing absolutely nothing. You were too ingrained in this relationship that didn't exist, too invested in these feelings to even begin to rationalize how this would all play out, and you didn't realize how unprepared you were until now.

His hand reached out again, only this time taking your angular chin in his hands as he pulled your eyes up to meet his. And you could only stare.

He was calculating and searching and it was so obvious that he wouldn't find what he was looking for. You've done this for too long. But as he kept his eyes on yours, you had a hard time remembering what you were hiding in the first place.

"I love you"

The words had slipped and tumbled out of your goddamn mouth before you'd had a chance to recover from the beautiful trap of his eyes, and you had to save face at this point. You were preparing an awkward utterance until you realized how much closer his face was to yours now, and you were sweating and oh my god why was it so hard to keep everything clear with him?

You take a brave shot and look at him, and you expected rage or confusion or even disgust but all you see is understanding and reciprocation is on his lips as they crash into yours.

And your reservations fade and your mask crumbles and you kiss him back in an act of not only honesty, but desperation, and that's the most pathetic part. It's been so long, and you've tried so hard for this one moment, and for reasons you can't place, but you're thankful for them, you don't feel that usual tug towards perfection.

It's his lips and his tongue as it grazes your teeth and you had prepared for the worst and yet, here you are, making out with this boy who had kept you guessing for so long.

And then he breaks it, breathing heavily and looking more beautiful than anything you'd ever seen with his flushed lips and ruffled hair that your hands probably travelled through at some point. You almost can't remember and it scares you but the most rational portion of your mind reminds you that there's probably plenty more time to remember things like this.

He sees you staring again, and he laughs and sighs in one of the most beautiful rushes of air you've ever heard and now you're just being a complete sappy douche. But it's hard not to be when the boy you've loved for most of your adolescent life is sitting in front of you and wants to kiss you.

And in between your calculating mind trying to make sense of your jumbled thoughts and your eyes meeting his and hungrily taking in every detail of him, he replied softly as he grabbed your hand with his rough ones.

"I love you too, old sport"

And though you want to punch him for the shitty Gatsby reference, his eyes show his sincerity, and you realize that all of these miscalculations are slight and the room left for error isn't something to worry about it's something to cherish and you sound like a badly written teen novel, but it's true.

For now, you get rid of any sense you have with reckless abandon and for the first time, you smile back, a huge goofy grin as you blush like a little fucking schoolgirl and move closer to return the favor.


End file.
